


At a Dream's Beginning

by kunstvogel



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Chris tries her best, Gen, Post-War, Roy needs a hug, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-04-25 08:08:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14374530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kunstvogel/pseuds/kunstvogel
Summary: Roy returns from Ishval. Chris sees the horror in his obsidian eyes and knows he’s changed. Unfinished fic.





	At a Dream's Beginning

**June 1908**

Chris Mustang watched the smoke swirl up from her cigar, giving the ceiling a hazy appearance. It was still quite early for any business - her bar was pitifully empty, the faint music amplifying the emptiness of her surroundings. The woman felt her 57 years in that moment, smiling grimly.

“I wonder how Roy is doing,” she mused aloud, leaning heavily against the counter. She remembered the last time she’d seen him - young and bright, full of energy. He’d been eager to get to the train station, as he was moving in with Berthold Hawkeye and his daughter Riza Hawkeye, to be the elder’s apprentice. He’d always been a smart little thing - curious and quick to learn, constantly experimenting and questioning.

Needless to say, Berthold had been impressed with the fifteen-year-old’s intellect, and had discussed his alchemy research with the teen. Hardly a week after that discussion, Roy packed up his things and boarded the train, headed northeast to the tiny farm village where the Hawkeyes resided.

Drawn out of her reverie, the woman sighed heavily, tapping her cigar against the ashtray. That had been nine years ago - and she hadn’t heard from Roy since his last letter, stating that he’d joined the military academy, and Berthold had passed away. She dug up the letter from her cabinet, reading the date. _May 14, 1902._ Had it really been that long? In 1902 Fuhrer Bradley had declared war on Ishval - and she couldn’t see how Roy could have avoided being recruited into it.

She only hoped, for his sake, that he had not become a State Alchemist. If the stories were anything to go by, their lives were pure hell.

The bell on the door chimed, and she blinked in surprise, looking up at the man standing in the doorway. He wasn’t particularly tall - roughly 5’7, if she had to guess - and his short, cropped black hair was a mess against his tired, sunburnt face.

“Hey,” Roy greeted, his voice deeper than she remembered. “I’m home.”

Abruptly, Chris stood and approached him, her eyes skimming over his form. His military uniform and white cloak were absolutely filthy, covered in soot and half-scrubbed out bloodstains, but he was alive and didn’t appear to be in any pain. She sighed in relief, a deep chuckle escaping her lips.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” she breathed. “I haven’t seen you in nearly a decade, boy. You’ve sure grown up.” If he hesitated to speak, she didn’t linger on the fact.

“It’s been a while,” he agreed. His voice was meek, exhaustion dripping from every syllable. He swayed on his feet.

“Sit down before you collapse,” Chris chided, guiding him over to the plush recliner. “You’re a mess. Take a shower and get some clean clothes once you’re ready. I’ll get you a drink.” He watched in tired bemusement as she floated around the kitchen, finding a glass and filling it with tap water, dumping a few ice cubes into the drink. She held it out to him and he took it with a mumbled thank you, sipping hesitantly.

“So, how have you been? I wasn’t sure if you were even alive anymore,” Chris started, conversationally. “You never wrote back.”

Roy lowered the glass into his lap, shoulders sagging. “I never got the letters,” he said. “I was stationed in Ishval a few months after, and I didn’t go back to the Hawkeye home. Riza left around the same time, actually - she was in the academy, too.”

Chris’s eyebrows quirked. “Riza Hawkeye, in the military? I would never have guessed.”

Roy was silent, taking a slow drink of water. The elder woman noticed his hands, looking a little closer. His skin was cracked, and she could see that his fingers were calloused and blistered. In particular, his thumb and middle fingers were rubbed raw.

“What happened to your hands?” She asked, concerned. He blinked, flinching imperceptibly, and examined the appendages in question.

“The gloves - well, my gloves - rubbed them raw, I guess.This is the first time I’ve taken them off since going to Ishval,” he explained.

“What gloves?” Chris probed, confused. She couldn’t image that handling a gun could have caused such damage. She watched as Roy sighed, rummaging through his pants pockets, and pulled out two white gloves, stained with soot and sand - and on the back, stitched in blood-red thread, was an alchemical array she’d never seen before.

She was at a loss for words. Roy’s jaw clenched as he stared at the offending objects, and he stuffed them back into his pockets before taking another drink.

“Roy, is that - are you a State Alchemist now?” Chris asked, afraid of the answer she knew he’d give.

“Yes,” he rasped. “I have been, since Master Hawkeye passed away, actually.”

“Is that why Riza joined the military, too?”

He nodded, grief flashing across his features. “I didn’t know about it until she was stationed out there with me.”

Chris sighed, running a hand through her hair. Roy finished his drink, frowning at it pensively.

“I’m going to take a shower,” he said, standing up. Chris nodded, taking the glass from him and watching as he trudged up the stairs, his booted steps heavy and weighted with an unspeakable sorrow.

“Oh, Roy,” Chris whispered. “What happened to you?”

*

Roy stood under the lukewarm spray of the shower, his arms held out, palms facing up. His gaze ran over the abused skin, seeing the blood that wasn’t really there, feeling it permeating his skin, crawling along his nerves and making him tense in discomfort.

His hands had taken countless lives, just because he’d been ordered to - and not only that. He saw Riza’s back - _the blood red tattoo sprawling across pale skin, her muscles convulsing as she sobbed in agony through her teeth, skin bubbling and hissing as the flames died away._

” _I-is it u-unreadable?” She asked, words incomprehensible through the leather of her belt, the violent chattering of her teeth. Roy felt his throat and eyes burning, a sob clawing its way up his chest. He smelled the burning flesh and felt the betrayal in his heart._

” _Shit - no, o-one more t-time. It’s s-still legible. I’m so sorry,” he stumbled over his words, raising his shaking hand and pressing stinging fingers together._

_Riza nodded, forcing herself to relax. “I’m ready,” she whispered, and he snapped, an arc of fire dancing on her lower back-_

Roy gasped, wide-eyed, as he grabbed onto the shower wall. His heart hammered in his chest, and he couldn’t hold back the wretched sob that tore its way through his throat. His fist clenched uselessly against the slick tiles, head bowed as he finally let his tears fall, mingling with the now cold water dripping from his hair and face.

*

Chris busied herself with cleaning up Roy’s old bedroom while he showered. She hadn’t touched anything since he left, and a thin coat of dust covered every surface.

Grumbling to herself about her own laziness, she opened the window and began dusting everything off. When she reached the closet she realized no clothes left behind were big enough for the man, and hoped he’d brought his own clothing with. He certainly wouldn’t fit in Chris’s wardrobe, the wraith that he was.

She heard the shower start with a creaking lurch as she tore the sheets from the bed, digging out cleaner ones from the hallway closet.

 _I think I’ll make some sandwiches for lunch_ , she deliberated. Roy certainly looked like he could benefit from a meal - if the pallor of his skin was anything to go by. In spite of a badly sunburnt face, she could tell he was as pale as a ghost, and his trembling hands had not slipped her notice. Having been his foster mother, she was more than aware of his bad habits - and he clearly had not changed much in spite of circumstances. She remembered how often he’d gotten too wrapped up in whatever he was doing to pay attention to his body’s needs, and she had had to remind him to eat something.

As she finished making his bed, she heard a muffled sob from the bathroom. She paused, her heart in her throat, listening to the anguished sound and those which followed it. Chris wanted nothing more than to comfort him, but she held back.

The one thing Roy had always despised was when someone else tried to comfort him without him asking. He hated to appear weak and would only accept help if he felt he was truly unable to hold his own. Honestly, Chris was no different. She supposed this was why she had the strength to finish her task and trod back downstairs, pretending she hadn’t heard the heartbreaking, private display of emotion.

She busied herself, making honey-ham sandwiches with egg salad, and poured two glasses of root beer. It was a meager meal compared to what she was capable of making, but it would suffice. Chris waited patiently as Roy finished his shower and dressed, then trudged down the stairs, dressed in a thin, long-sleeved white shirt and grey slacks.

He sat down next to her in brooding silence, sniffling. She pushed the plate at him with a gentle smile.

“Eat up, kid. You look like you need it.” His eyes met hers, red-rimmed and dark with boundless exhaustion. He grimaced at the prospect of food but nodded, eating hesitantly.

As Chris began to eat her own meal, she noticed the slump of his shoulders, the way his shirt hung on his frame as though he’d borrowed them from someone bigger - but she knew this was not the case, observing how he tucked into his meal with a new urgency after working his appetite up again.

After they’d both finished eating, she took his hands in hers without any warning, turning them palms-up.

“We’ll need to take care of this,” she sighed, standing up. She dug out the first-aid kit and returned, popping it open. Glancing back at his hands, she noticed that the skin of his right thumb had burst under pressure - probably from when he had picked up the mug of root beer - and was now bleeding. He blinked, detached, as his palm filled with a small pool of the crimson fluid.

Chris mopped up the blood with a rag and applied the disinfectant to his wounded fingers. She noticed with a frown that he didn’t even flinch, obviously having gotten used to the sting of peroxide in his time on the battlefield. She wrapped gauze around his thumbs and middle fingers, taping it off and sitting back to observe her work.

“Thank you,” Roy said, quietly.

“It was necessary. Don’t need you bleeding all over everything you touch,” Chris replied. She packed up the kit and stuffed it back where she’d found it. Despite her gruff words, a maternal instinct stirred in her breast, and she turned to face him.

There was a quiet horror in the dark grey of his irises, reflecting in the light. His expression, though, was stoic and collected, betrayed only by the intermittent tremors of his hands and the glint of his eyes. His emotional distance should have seemed normal, but she knew this was far beyond anything she’d ever witnessed from him in his youth. Even when he’d been newly orphaned at the tender age of four, his parents violently torn from his life, she had not seen such repressed emotional pain in his form.

Chris needed to get him to talk about it, but she had no idea where to start. She was afraid to push him too hard, but she couldn’t bear to watch him suffer in silence.

“You look like you need a drink,” she suggested, nonchalant. His expression flickered, something cracking in the hard, emotionless mask and twisting his lips in a frown, but it was gone as soon as it had appeared.

“Sure,” he said.

*

Chris sat on the plush recliner, alone and contemplative. Roy had retired just a few minutes before, exhausted by his emotional breakdown and the physical toll the war had taken on him. He’d admitted that he had only managed to get a half hour of sleep in the last three days. Chris had immediately shooed him off to his room in order to get some rest.

She was left in solitude with her thoughts, feeling for the young man who was her foster son. The alcohol had loosened his tongue - she supposed that was a dirty trick, but she truly meant well - and he’d opened up a little about his experience in Ishval.

” _There was a...cadet, who I met in the academy. H-he was an Ishvalan - got treated like crap, so I helped him out. Maes backed me up,”_ Roy had recalled, speaking tightly.

“ _The guy’s name was Heathcliff Arb - not really important anymore, but I remembered it. Anyways, when the war was almost over...I was sent to eradicate his s-sector, and h-he was there...fighting with the snipers I was sent to take out. I did my job, went up to make sure I’d gotten all of them...and he was there. H-he recognized me, and I-I couldn’t...couldn’t kill him. Heathcliff - he shot me, but Maes was there. He’d missed, though - g-got my pocket-watch. But Maes...he didn’t miss. He killed him, no hesitation.”_

_Roy had stopped then, resting his head in his arms as his shoulders quaked with grief. Chris had been silent, stunned by the emotional display. He’d looked up at her, dark eyes over-bright with tears._

” _I killed him,”_ he’d whispered. _”Maybe not really, but I feel like I did.”_

” _I’m so sorry, Roy,”_ Chris had said, voice cracking. _”My poor boy.”_

” _That’s not the worst of it, either,”_ Roy had gone on, face twisting into a humorless smile. His speech grew frantic, voice cracking. _”I hurt Riza, too. B-burned her back - she asked me to, I didn’t want to do it - the tattoo her f-father gave her. My- my alchemy. She wanted it gone, because of what she’d seen me use it for.”_

After that he’d been too upset to go on, and Chris determined he go rest for a while.

 

**Author's Note:**

> when chris cooks dinner that night the smell of cooking meat sets him off and he has a flashback to the first time he killed, he throws up (like he did then) and she does her best to help, realizing how much hell he’s been through. she overhears as he calls hughes that night and talks to him, desperately seeking comfort - hughes asks him why he won’t see riza in the hospital and he admits he’s too afraid to face her despite the fact that it was what she had asked of him (burning the tattoo,) because he’d turned his hand on someone he loved. hughes gently reminds him of their plan and he calms a little, finding a thread of strength and grabbing onto it.


End file.
